He opened it, and his eyes went wide. There was a thousand dollars in it. Dana’s money. He began crying again.
The next morning, I returned to Berkeley, feeling empty. After everything that had happened with Ken, I didn’t feel like going back to the apartment on Le Roy Avenue. I still had Pete’s pale face in my mind’s eye, worrying about his friend, “We promised Ken we’d call him when we got here. We need to tell him everything’s fine. I know him, he must be worried sick for me.” Ken? Worried for someone else? What a joke! Why, for God’s sake, did Pete have such a distorted impression of his childhood friend?
The Georgia Street volunteers let us call Berkeley. Each time, Pete would get a busy signal, or someone who promised to pass the message on. But Ken never called back. “He’s got lots to do,” Pete said. “It doesn’t matter. We’ll end up talking to each other sooner or later.” I could tell he was dejected after he hung up. On the morning I left, he came to me, “Tell Ken I’ll call him at the apartment Saturday morning, okay?”
“Okay, Pete. If I have to, I’ll tie him to the bed before he wakes up.” He smiled and gave me a hug. I climbed into the Volks, full of hate. Things were beginning to affect me.
I arrived in Berkeley two days later, late in the evening. The apartment was dark; Ken wasn’t there, to my great relief. I hurriedly gathered my things — some clothes and books — and left a note on the table, which I hoped was biting:
Ken,
Pete is in good hands, at least for now. He’s courageous, despite what you think. He’ll call you Saturday at 10 a.m. You know, some have been thought brave because they were afraid to run away.… Time for me to get back on the road.
Thanks for your hospitality.
Roman
P.S. – The phrase on bravery isn’t from me. It’s from Thomas Fuller, in case you want to use it in one of your speeches.
4
Ethel had given me the contact info of a friend of hers whom she’d met in New York and who’d been living in San Francisco for a few years now. I had thought of calling him a number of times when I was in Berkeley, without ever having gone through with it, maybe to prove to myself that I didn’t need anyone’s help. “Go see him,” Ethel had told me. “He’s charming. He’ll help you sort yourself out over there. He’s expecting you.”
His name was Bobby Spangler. We met up in a coffee place on 5th Street, right next to the San Francisco Chronicle, where he worked. Warm and polite, he wore large steel-framed glasses, spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully, his fine hands constantly in movement. As a journalist, he covered cultural events. At twenty-six he had his very own column, called “Sounds and Music,” which offered readers intriguing encounters, both improbable and innovative, such as comparisons between the Beatles and Schubert, Pink Floyd and Mussorgsky. Born in Brooklyn, Bobby had studied music at Juilliard before dropping everything to move to San Francisco. “The only thing that’s ever mattered to me is to build a life without having to make too many compromises. Painful compromises.” He fell silent after those words, as if meditating on his past, on the tragedy of Vietnam.
He was surprised at my guess. “Oh, no! Not the war!” He flashed me an enigmatic smile. “No, that problem solved itself.”
“They’ll leave you alone? You’ll never go?”
“Never.”
“How did you manage that?”
Bobby was homosexual. He stared at me from behind his glasses, waiting for a reaction. What was I supposed to answer? I don’t give a shit? It doesn’t bother me? I said nothing. He took a sip of coffee, wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. “It’s surely the only time that being a homosexual in America has had a positive aspect. This country is mad.”
Bobby ordered us two pieces of carrot cake as if our conversation had stimulated his appetite. He went on, “In New York, it’s either the lie or the provocation. There’s nothing in between. Either you hide and you make up a girlfriend for social respectability, which is what most people do, or you strut your stuff grotesquely, a middle finger to society. Here in Frisco, a community is taking shape. Sure, nothing is won yet, it’ll take time, but we’ll get people’s respect sooner or later. It’s the inevitable law of numbers.” He swallowed a piece of cake and smiled. “And you, what brings you here?”
I shrugged my shoulders, “I’m not entirely sure. Hopefully, some guiding light, some revelation to show me how to rebuild my life.”
He pushed his glasses up his nose.
“What are your interests?”
“Art, generally speaking. But what to do with that?”
He laughed. “Your road has brought you to San Francisco; it seems to me you’re right where you should be.”
Bobby Spangler was probably the best thing that had happened to me since Moïse. Our conversations about painting, music, literature — God, how I missed the MoMA in New York now! — were so much happier than those about war, imperialism and Communism, and the rest of that garbage, all part and parcel of living in Berkeley. Bobby brought me to the opera, to the movie theatre, to the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art. I had the feeling I was regaining some stability.
I moved into a three-room apartment on the corner of Post and Taylor, in the Tenderloin. I liked the anonymity offered by the six-story building, filled with tenants, every one more ordinary than the next, living typical lives far from the chaos and effusion of arrogant youth. Ten streets away, on Columbus Avenue, stood the bookstore founded by poet Lawrence Ferlinghetti, City Lights Books, which Moïse had so dreamed of visiting. (“Oh, man, I’m so jealous! Who did you see there? Ginsberg? Burroughs? Kerouac?” “Just Ginsberg.” “Ginsberg? What’s he saying, Ginsberg?” “What do you mean?” “You didn’t speak to him?” “What would I have said to him?” “Oh, man! There are so many things to say to Allen Ginsberg!”)
Bobby found me a job as a low-level assistant at the Chronicle. I didn’t need the money, but I was interested in seeing how a newspaper worked. My job was to hand the reporters wire service dispatches that were spit out day and night by the telex machines parked in a large air-conditioned and soundproofed room. I loved the infernal machines beating out the rhythm of the planet — war, diplomacy, results of great sporting events, the stock market. The feeling of tearing that still-warm paper along the dotted line, separating carbon copies and bringing them to the reporters at their desks — Vietnam, local news, politics, sports, economy. I was the one who “distributed work,” and the reporters jokingly began calling me boss. I felt like I was part of a family.
Quickly, rumours about Bobby and me made the rounds. Bobby told me about it one evening, after work. He was mad as hell. He asked, “You think I’m hitting on you?”
“I.…”
“Forget it. You’re not my type. You never will be.”
Apparently, a guy at the local news desk, Nolan Tyler, had begun the rumours. The sort of guy who was always talking about his sexual prowess, always had a new story to tell, always smutty and unbelievable. The next morning, Bobby called him out publicly, in front of the whole Chronicle staff, “What about you, Nolan?”
“What about me?”
“As far as I know, you don’t have a wife or girlfriend, right?”
“What are you saying, friend?”
“Well, maybe you too could be.…”
“Shut up, Bobby, or.…”
“Or what, Nolan? Why are you getting angry? I’m using the same logic as you are. And I’m not checking my facts.”
Nolan, a tall, strong guy, his back bent, broken in a long-ago car accident, stood up. Bobby said to him, “Why don’t you leave us alone, Roman and me. Because I can start a few rumours myself.”
And that was the end of that.
One morning in April 1969, the words deserter and Vancouver attracted my attention. A news item from UPI, the paper still warm, all the way from Blaine, in Washington State. I read it three times
, my hands shaking. The worst possible scenario, right there, in black and white. The item was about Pete. Canadian authorities had thrown him out of the country, something to do with drugs, heroin he had tried to buy from an Indian prostitute in Vancouver’s Downtown Eastside. I turned pale, What got into you, goddamn it? He’d barely stepped on American soil, and the FBI put handcuffs on him. Stupefied, I re-read every word of the dispatch, hoping I’d gotten something wrong — the name, the age of the perp, but no, it was him: Pete Dobson, born in Oakland, twenty years old, escaped from Fort Lewis, Washington state, and the Presidio in San Francisco. I looked for my name there, but didn’t find it, to my great relief. The dispatch didn’t mention the circumstances surrounding his arrival in Vancouver. His trial would soon begin; he was facing fifteen years in prison, perhaps more. I brought the dispatch to Nolan. He covered stories on deserters for the Chronicle. He saw my face and said, “Hey, anything wrong?” I mumbled, “Another guy who got caught.” He went through the text quickly, “Well, he broke the law!” I knew I could never have that conversation with Nolan Tyler.
Poor Pete. The news of his arrest had me in the dumps for days. I thought about what they’d do to him, the treatment he’d receive in prison; they weren’t kind with recidivists in military prisons. And Ken Lafayette? How would he react? Did he have any compassion for his childhood friend?
5
For the first time ever, I remember thinking, There, that’s what I want to do with my life.
We were outside the Castro Theatre. Bobby and I had just seen Midnight Cowboy. The theatre was emptying out, and we stood steady, like boulders in the middle of a river as the crowd flowed around us. We were quiet, still filled with that improbable but touching friendship between Joe Buck (Jon Voight) and Ratso Rizzo (Dustin Hoffman) in the New York Moïse had helped me discover. My throat was tight. I had the uncanny impression of having seen us, Moïse and me, on the big screen. It was almost our story. The story of our providential meeting and our indestructible friendship. For the first time, a film was showing me myself. For the first time, they talked about me in the movies.
(Bobby told me it was a gay movie, but I didn’t believe him.)
“I want to write movies, Bobby.”
He pushed his glasses on his nose, and stared at me with his clear blue eyes, looking for confirmation that I was serious. Around us, the flow of moviegoers was dwindling.
“If what you’re saying is true, you’ve got to work hard,” he told me. “First, you’ve got to start writing.”
A few days later, he came to my house with an old Olivetti he had found at the Chronicle. With a few adjustments, it worked perfectly. “If you really mean it, you’ll get on it as soon as I’m out the door.”
And that’s what I did. For days and weeks and months, I kept my ass in the chair like Bobby had told me to. “Hook your brain up directly to your fingers. Don’t let the keys get between you and your ideas. You’ll see, you’ll be surprised by what comes out of …” — he put his finger on his temple — “here.”
Finally, I had a goal, a real one! I’d be a scriptwriter! I began organizing my life around my exciting, motivating promise, working by day at the newspaper, writing in the evenings at home, going to movie theatres at least three times a week, where I savoured the latest productions — Easy Rider, They Shoot Horses, Don’t They?, Costa Gavras’ Z.… I came out of the theatres at midnight or later and rushed to the apartment to begin writing, all through the night until dawn, and then made my way to the Chronicle, dead tired but satisfied and perfectly … happy. Yes, happy! My life had meaning — I was more than comfortable financially (I’d wisely placed my inheritance in the bank and in bonds), my work at the Chronicle wasn’t an obligation, I could have left, now that I had this new occupation, but as Bobby said, “Ideas appear in contact with others.” Sometimes I got contracts with advertising agencies to write scripts for television — one for pantyhose, another for lipstick; they gave me a concept, and I wrote a short story. It was fun and paid well. For the rest, “the serious projects,” I sent my scripts to Hollywood or producers in San Francisco, following Bobby’s advice. It was one disappointment after the other on that front, but Bobby encouraged me, “Don’t give up. One day you’ll make it.” I could only hope he was right.
Then, my mother died. Moïse told me over the phone. I’d spoken to her not too long ago, and an edge to her voice had told me something was wrong.
“Ma, is everything okay?”
“When are you coming to see me? You’ve been promising me for years.”
“Ma, things are complicated for now. There’s work, my movies.”
“It’s been three years since I came to visit you in New York. I don’t think I can hold on much longer.”
“Hold on? What do you mean by that, Ma?”
“Your mother is feeling her age, Romain. That’s all.”
The guilt I felt, the guilt of not having seen her one last time.
6
There, over the horizon, sun rising after a long night, returning to the country of his youth. A strange language spoken around him, sounds he had lost somewhere on the side of the long road that leads to exile. His travel bag in his hands, he strides through the hallways of the Montreal airport, his ears raised like a nervous dog, his throat tight. He listens for a dancing voice he’s missed, he scans the crowd for a friend he hasn’t seen in five years.
A scene out of a movie? No — September 1971.
“Hey, man? Is that you?”
I couldn’t believe it. I’d gone past the man at least twice.
“Moïse?”
I had to pinch myself. He’d put on weight, cheeks full. He had a moustache like Dennis Hopper and an impressive afro. He countered my astonishment with his own. “And you! With your beard and your hair, you look like you just came out of Manson’s compound! Come here, buddy!”
And like in our best days in New York, we burst out laughing and fell into each other’s arms, our eyes wet, fighting off tears. “Man, man, man! Five years! It’s so good to see you!”
Yes, it was good to be together again.
He hurried me to the airport parking lot where Louise’s Beetle was waiting for us, the same Louise of Moïse’s impassioned letters. He grabbed my bag, threw it on the back seat, opened the door and invited me to climb into his car, holding my hand as if I was his girl on a date. “Quit screwing around, Moïse!” He laughed. His moustache danced beneath his nose. He started the Beetle and we drove off towards Métis Beach.
“I can’t believe you’re here, man! It’s a dream! A goddamn dream! How does it feel to be going back home?”
Yes, how did it feel? “I don’t know … I’m nervous … I should have come back earlier. When she was still alive. When it mattered….”
He placed a hand on my shoulder. “Hey, you couldn’t know, man. You’re being too hard on yourself.”
“It’s too late for her. She can’t care anymore.…”
Moïse gave me a worried look, then turned his eyes back to the road. We were driving past the suburbs, a blue September sky above us and already the trees taking on autumn’s dress. It was strange to have been gone all these years and not be able to say how I really felt. Finally, I spoke, “I’m going to have to face off with the old man. That’s what makes me the most nervous, I think.”
Moïse laughed. “Don’t worry about it. Your father’s a harmless old man now. You might not even recognize him.” He turned towards me, “I’m happy you’re here. I know you’re sad, but you’ll see, Louise and me, we’ll get your mind off things.” On the highway, the wind was buffeting the Beetle, and Moïse kept his hands firmly on the wheel. “Shit, shit, shit, and shit! So many things to tell you, man! Oh! I’m so happy!”
It was almost four o’clock in the afternoon by the time we got to the funeral home. Moïse put an arm around my shoulders and guided me through the crowd, perhaps thirty p
eople in all. Suffocating heat, disparaging glances, muted whispers. It’s him! Are you sure? If Moïse passed the decency test with his dark suit, I failed miserably with my dirty jeans, my fringed vest, my long hair, and beard. That’s him? That’s Romain?
I found my father prostrate before the coffin. Moïse was right; he was an old man. His back bent, a bald and wrinkled head, thick glasses that magnified his eyes. The whispers in my wake alerted him. He turned and noticed me. He pulled himself to his feet, walked towards me, close enough for me to smell the alcohol on his breath. I didn’t say anything, and he didn’t either. Around us, the crowd fell silent. I didn’t know what I had expected, certainly not reconciliation, perhaps a sort of truce. His vehemence put ice in my veins, “Go get changed and put on a tie, for God’s sake. You’re burying your mother!”
I tightened my fists. Discreetly, Moïse encouraged me not to make a scene. I said, as calmly as possible, “Hi, Dad. You could say hi before losing your temper.”
His face contorted. That evil, threatening look he had like that time I almost broke my neck falling on the Egans’ garage roof so many years ago. He told me off that time, instead of worrying for his son — yes, his son! — who could have injured himself seriously, fallen to the ground, broken an arm or his back.
“Did you hear me? Go get changed!”
“It’s all I have with me. It’ll have to do.”
It wasn’t true. I had a suit and tie in my bag, for the burial.
“Get changed, or get out of here!”
In the room, a stupefied silence. I was too astounded to recognize any of the faces staring at me. Jean? Paul? And over there, Françoise’s imposing figure? Outraged, hostile looks. I turned towards Moïse, “Okay, Moïse. Let’s get out of here.”
“Whatever you say, man.”
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